Friday, November 11

Skip over this if you want to stick with the thought that I'm doing well still. (Because I really am, but this doesn't show it. AT ALL.)

I was telling Rob this morning that I'm back into the phase of my life where I don't care to know what's going on in the world, because it upsets me too much. It's an ignorant and selfish way to live, I realize this, but then I read things like this:

and I am overwhelmed with guilt, hatred, and fear. We have no idea, and will never come even close to understanding what it is like to live life like this. We can read it all we want, read the gory details that the NY Times press explain with such indifference, feel like we're going to be sick with disgust, but still not come close to knowing what it's like to be present on one of the happiest days of your life, filled with such euphoria...and have it turned into a day of blood and death and torn limbs. We only know such scenes from a Hollywood set. We are so sheltered and removed from this, as much as we want to think that our glutenous American lives are horrible and difficult, they're not. They will never come close to the lives of most of the people on this planet.

When I read things like this, I feel so insignificant, so helpless...I want to crawl inside and cry without end. I get confused and distraught, wondering if I should feel blessed and go out and utilize the freedom that has been bestowed upon me by a chance birth, or if I should feel hatred and discontentment with my siutation and the people around me.

This is why I think sometimes it's better to be ignorant. I know these things go on, but when I have such evidence through descriptive words, there's nothing I can do but cry. Then I go out to my car, with only thoughts of what I should eat for lunch and what music I should listen to, and feel disgusted at how much people take this for granted. I don't know how to feel...because I can't feel. This isn't feeling. None of what I experience are close to the feelings some endure.